


Sucker Punch

by epherians



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fight Club - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Canon Relationship, POV Second Person, Rare Pairings, Relationship Study, Stream of Consciousness, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10042805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epherians/pseuds/epherians
Summary: Two women face off in fight club. But there’s a reason for it, as we all thought Pearl Attaway was the most non-violent member of the British Rite until she proved otherwise. Based on an OTP prompt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Imagine Person A of your OTP joins a fight club to earn some extra cash and comes home every weekend with bruises on their face. Person B keeps trying to get Person A to tell them why they keep getting all these bruises. Person A can’t tell even though they want to. But as everyone knows: the first rule of fight club is to not talk about fight club. Person B figures out why Person A doesn’t talk about their bruises when they find the stash of prize money. 
> 
> Bonus 1: Person B joins the fight club without telling Person A. Person B fights and wins against Person A, then silently leaves to go back home, leaving their prize money. Person A takes the money and follows B. 
> 
> Bonus 2: Person B doesn’t tell Person A that they know, they just silently treat the wounds when Person A gets home.

It’s not like you need the money, but perhaps you do. Not since Crawford _succeeded_ in taking control of your company, divesting you of your assets and fortune and leaving you all but a penniless, worthless wretch who dared defy the Grand Master and his selfish, heartless lust for greed.

Miss Frye takes you in and you are grateful. She lets you stay in one of their rented houses, because she knows you’re of no pride to sleep in a moving train with her and her brother, and offers whatever assistance she can to help you back on your feet. In the time that passes, you settle into your new life. Miss Frye brings you supplies and an allowance of funds, and you don't think much of it at first because you've had to adjust from living like a wealthy woman to living like the lower class. Of course, more times than any, she goes too out of her way to help, and you start to notice.

First, there’s the bruises. Miss Frye comes home once every week complaining and aching, a burden more than unnecessary for a woman to have.

“We don’t have a great line of work, as you might’ve figured out,” she explains. “The Rooks have to get dirty sometimes, but we mean no harm. Only to those who would wrong us.”

Secondly, there's the way she brings your allowance. Miss Frye—Evie, as you're now accustomed to calling her—attempted to be subtle and conceal it from you, but something isn't quite right when you notice the sack she comes home with.

You finally ask, “Where does this money come from?” and Evie all but goes rigid under the form of her robes.

It feels like eternal silence before she responds: “That’s not something I can tell you.” And for some reason, it’s not something you want to settle for. You need to know.

Though perhaps once you see the bloodied bandages tossed away, it finally clicks.

You are furious.

You enter the carriage—a service care of the Rooks—and waste no time dallying. “Which iron factory in Southwark houses an open fighting ring?” The Rook does not question how you know that; Southwark is your home and word on the street travels fast. He knows exactly where you mean and takes you there.

You're not really thinking a lot of this through. You're not exactly cut out for fisticuffs, much less dressed for one, but if there's anything you learned (the things you've learned of the underworld ever since you started living in it), it's that women don't have to follow laws when there are none. With any luck—and some togs grabbed from Evie's chest—you won't look like a sore thumb when you barge in to make a statement.

You make your way through the crowds as they roar for the victor in the center. That champion is none other than Evie Frye, dressed more modestly than the sweaty men throwing themselves at her and still wiping the floor with much more brute force. Robert Topping, the ring-master, flatters Evie’s prowess to no end as he lifts her hand for the raucous cheers of the spectators.

“Which brave soul will challenge the ring next?” Topping asks, and at once you run straight in. The crowd looks confused, surprised to see you of all people, but there's a surge of pride that thrills you when you see Evie Frye, wide-eyed and surprised and maybe with a little bit of fear in her face. That all changes when you march up and slap her.

(Oh, you’re not the cousin of Crawford Starrick for _nothing_. You'll be ruthless when you need to and now is one of those times.) Evie stumbles as the crowd lets out an audible gasp, and maybe you have a chance at fighting back. You stand there looking so smug and pleased with yourself until Evie slaps you.

It.

Burns.

Hard.

(THAT you will feel in the morning.)

Without thinking—are you thinking?—you’d slap her back, but she grabs your hand and twists you around until your arm is held up against your back. In response, you elbow her in the stomach to escape, and then the rest of the fight goes down in a blurry mess and you can’t quite remember all of it.

(It’s a wild and dizzy experience, to be honest.) (You were never a match for Evie—and you probably should’ve remembered that before charging with your fist out, because she blocks you with her wrist and guts you in the stomach.) (Now you’re in so much pain with the tears streaking and the blood burning and the crowds screaming—) (There’s face slapping and hair pulling and a bold attempt to hurl you to the ground—you can give her credit for that.) (She must’ve gotten a good hit on you because your hand pulls away **blooming red** from the side of your face and it briefly crosses your mind that Evie can stoop to your tactics if that’s what will constitute a fair fight—)

(Her hair has already fallen loose, so you grab it and watch her scream—“Let go! LET GO!”—but you’re thanked for your efforts by an elbow to your face—)

( _Fuck_ , that hurts.) ( _Wake up and smell the flowers, Attaway, you can’t fight back for shit._ )

(At one point, you sort of recall getting messed around like a rag doll. She’s not going to kill you, obviously.) (But not if you try first.) So finally, you decide to settle the matter by grabbing her and tripping her hard.

She’s knocked to the ground and she doesn’t get up. Towering over, you kick her in the stomach. Down and out for the count. You’ll feel a huge wave of guilt in the morning, but it won’t hurt as much as the sense of disappointment burning in you right now.

Forget the money, you’ve finished what you came here to do. You walk away before Topping does something like make you the champion, and you won’t wait for Evie to go after you or not. You know she can pick herself up.

You arrive home first, and set about examining your own wounds and bruises in the hopes of treating them a bit. The areas that hurt most are your face and stomach, places where you got punched bad. (This is probably all the physical activity you’re going to do for a while…)

By the time you’re finished wrapping bandages, Miss Frye comes home.

You hear the door open, footsteps of the person you love walking in and the sound of a heavy clunk of coinage dropping on the table. She tries to ignore you.

“Come here,” you immediately say.

…When she does, you remain fixated on her standing in front of you. “Show me your hands.”

You remove the bandages and examine her hands—knuckles bloodied and evidently put to use in a fight.

“ _Look at me._ ” Reluctantly, she complies.

You set about to her bruises and injuries. She has taught you well in that regard. They’re not too terrible—Evie Frye can survive injuries a lot better than _you_ can. She is too paralyzed to speak, or even wince from wound meeting antiseptic. She soldiers…but sometimes you wish she didn’t have to bear it alone.

“I'm sorry,” she breaks the silence, the first she's spoken since returning to the house.

“For what?” You test her.

She doesn’t know. “Did I hurt you?” she asks in the most frightened and timid voice you have ever heard.

“Not in the way I expected,” you answer. “Were you always going to keep this a secret from me?”

“-I didn't think it would offend you!” she starts. “I didn't know you would be so mad and object!”

“I'm not mad about you spending time in a fighting ring—I’m mad that you kept this a secret from me, even when it’s so dangerous.”

“The fight club isn’t dangerous…” Evie tries to object.

“People could easily die there, or be crippled permanently. One false move and you can’t undo what has been done.” You explain solemnly.

“How else should I help you then?” She looks up. “My winnings are the best way of providing you income!”

You let out an exhale. “We’ll think of a way… I think it’s high time I did more than just—being like this.”

“I promise I still want to help you.”

“And I’ll let you. But don’t ever try to do something for me and keep it a secret. Do you understand?”

Her response wavers.

“…yes, Pearl.”

"Thank you.” You slowly get up to leave, but Evie makes to tug you by the arm and keep you still. As soon as you turn around, her lips press onto yours.

(It must be the rush of the fight talking.)

Even after all you did, your heart can’t say no. So you return the kiss. Because heaven knows you've already put her through a lot today, that doesn't deserve to happen again.

Not that there are much worse secrets you haven't kept from her yourself.

For now, you mutter soft words where it will send chills into her skin. “The only one allowed to win over you is _me._ ”


End file.
